i wanna feel you hold onto me (and make me lose my breath)
by charbrose
Summary: glimpses of charlotte and bobby {established bobby roode and charlotte flair}


_a/n: this is all because of the mixed match challenge. charlotte and bobby ship themselves and i can't stand it, they're so cute omg. charlotte's older sister megan just recently became engaged to the wrestling podcaster, conrad thompson and this story takes place at their wedding. my inspiration was the song "heartbeat" by carrie underwod._

 **~*~i wanna feel you holding onto me~*~**

 **(and make me lose my breath)**

 **pairing: bobby roode/charlotte flair**

 **summary: glimpses of charlotte and bobby {established bobby roode and charlotte flair}**

 **rating: t**

.

.

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There was nothing like _this_ , waking up tangled up in silken sheets, with _him_.

Charlotte loved Bobby's hands.

They're large in comparision to hers; her fingers pushed against the top of his palms when pressed together. They're calloused from all of his years in the ring but in the way he touched her – reverent and gentle – they were smooth and practiced, treating her like she was some _delicate little thing_ , so different than the way she saw herself; all legs, shoulders that were broader than most women, muscle [hard and unyielding] underneath her smooth skin. And _my god_ the feel of them drove her over the edge, especially when his fingers read the arch of her back like Braille on those lazy nights when she snuck him into the hotel room she [almost always] shared with Becky.

Not that Becky ever noticed, she slept like the dead, a breathe-rite strip barely stopping her freight train snoring.

[ _c'mon bobby, a sultry whisper, her hands grabbing at his thick forearms as she pulls him down the non-discript hallway_ ]

His hands, _his fucking hands_ , those hands that had the capability of being so precise when they would hold the tweezers between his thumb and forefinger, painstakingly placing each jewel around her right eye. His hands that would fasten the white leather around her waist, taking care so it sat perfectly at her hips. His hands that took care of the bruises, the aches and the pains that came from the hard canvas and thick ropes of the ring.

His hands that made her – The Queen – _fall apart_ with an expert curl of his fingers, a tug of her platinum locks, and the way they would _squeeze_ her cheeks, possessive and harsh [mine, the squeeze said and she answered – gushing – yours].

His hands with broad fingers that her slender ones wrapped around easily, which made her heart sing with the word _home_.

.

.

.

She's perfectperfectperfect _perfect_.

Not even a strand of hair is ever out of place, there's not a piece of lint lingering on her clothes, not a stray thread curling from the silk of her robes.

She's perfectperfectperfect _perfect_.

Except when she's with him.

No one – he laughs, to himself at catering as he's working through his title match with Jinder – would believe him if talked about the way she was when they were alone. This barefoot beauty who left the crystals and robes behind for cut-offs and his button downs. His shirts tucked haphazardly into the waistband of the shorts, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, buttons undone so mother of pearl skin peaks through like the lace of her bras, teasing and tempting, making him swallow thickly, his tongue always licking at his ips.

[ _tease, a low growl, hand sliding up the miles and miles of smooth skin that make up her longlonglonglong_ _ **long**_ _legs_ ]

.

.

.

There's _something_ about the handsome figure he cuts in gorgeous linen suits, the sculpted figure of a _champion_ , she chides herself, feeling like a schoolgril with a crush. She _hates_ [loves] how he makes her feel; her knees weak, her stomach filled with butterfiles but worst of all how there's this _emptiness_ between her aching thighs that only he can fill.

How she hasn't bitten a hole through her lip when she watches his matches, she doesn't know.

Once his ornate robe [always the same color as hers] falls away after he's made his elaborate entrance, there's nothing but skin.

His shoulders are broad, tapering into a thick but still narrow waist. His chest is wide, flawless tan skin stretched over taut muscle. His abs – those grooves, she's mapped with her fingertips _and_ tongue – she knows all too well while his back is etched with deep valleys and peaks and his _ass..._ She's there, squirming and rubbing her thighs together, _desparate and empty_ and pouting and wanting.

If she didn't love him, she'd hate him.

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.

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For anyone else he would never _beg_. Begging was beyond beneath him. He was a decorated Champion, not some schoolboy whose tongue was stuck to the roof his mouth, his throat dry and eyes wide while his hands shook because she was gracious enough to be in his presence.

But she wasn't an ordinary woman. She was Charlotte Elizabeth Flair. A force to be reckoned with, a decorated Champion in her own right and when she wanted to, she held all the proverbial cards. She was sleek and graceful, deadly like a panther on the prowl, her beautiful features betraying nothing as she toyed with him, his control taut like a string on the verge of snapping.

[ _i want you to beg, her voice cool her perfect pout a hair's breath from his rock-hard leaking cock_ ]

[ _fuck, a desparate curse, every inch of him taut with tension, his hips thrusting upward. please charlotte, please_ ]

[ _good boy, a satisfied purr before she sinks her mouth around him, tongue slipping from her lips to taste the pre-cum at the tip_ ]

If he didn't love her, he'd hate her.

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.

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 **i want to wear his initial on his chain round my neck**

 **chain round my neck**

 **not because he owns me**

 **but cause he really knows me**

 **[call it what you want – taylor swift]**

There was her father's rough slow drawl in her ear – ecstatic and warm underneath – _megan's getting married_. Her lips curl from listening to the message and she texts her older sister ( _congrats, sis! conrad's a great guy, i'm so happy for you!_ ) Her mind drifts, thinking about _him_. Her thumb touches her ring finger and her nose scrunches, her head shaking.

She doesn't want a ring. She's never been good with rings. She's had two on that finger and she was careless with both and in the end the shimmering gold felt more like an albatross, an obligation than a symbol of love and forever. She's touching the hollow of her throat without realizing she's doing it, when she closed her eyes she doesn't know, but when they open she can see it; a simple silver chain around her neck, a small 'B' in diamonds is there and her lips are tilted warmly.

"I wanted to wear that shirt," A low chuckle and in the bathroom mirror she sees his reflection, he's standing in the doorway jeans tight on his lean hips and her tongue wets her dry lips. She knows he saw her wet her lips but she ignores the cocky tilt of his lips when she turns around, leaning casually against the marble counter top.

"Finders keepers, losers weepers," She taunts, sticking out her tongue even though she's undoing the buttons.

"Charlotte..." Her name nothing but a growl from deep inside his well-muscled chest. She has no plans of putting up a fight after he's moved away from the doorway and standing in front of her, one of his big hands at her hip while the other's around her throat, thumb applying just the _right_ amount of pressure, the kind that has her grinding against his thick thigh that's wedged between her legs, the denim rough against her bare skin.

"I don't want a ring," A breathy whisper in his ear as he eases his broad fingers out of her panties while she's clinging to him, nails digging into his impressive shoulders to keep herself upright. "Megan's getting married, Dad left me a voicemail to tell me. I've never, um, been good with rings."

"That makes two of us," He draws her closer, their foreheads pressed together. His smile is broad, taking in his handiwork, her cut-offs slung low on her hips, her bra strap hanging at her elbow and the once-flawless mother of pearl decolletage and breasts red and raw from his beard.

There's a small maroon box with the cursive gold script of _Cartier_ on the top inside the case that holds her title a week later. She opens the lid and staring back at her is a necklace with a small 'B' encrusted in diamonds. The chain is long enough for her to tuck the charm into her shirt so it hangs between her breasts, something that's just for them.

.

.

.

"You're next," Megan and David taunt, making Charlotte roll her eyes. She's just fine with her necklace and she knows Bobby's fine with the black ink script that crawls across his wrist, spelling out her name. She never thought he'd be one for a tattoo, not like her that had several, but a week ago he slipped one of his wristbands away backstage and there on his right wrist was her name.

"C'mon," Charlotte whispers, begging note in her tone as she tugs at Bobby's hand while he's talking with Conrad's podcasting partner, Bruce Pritchard aka Brother Love. The ceremony was beautiful, taking place on Ric's sprawling property in Atlanta and now the 100 guests were spread out on the spacious back deck and patio.

"Where?" He laughs, despite knowing it doesn't matter _where_ , he'd follow her anywhere. "You'll see," A sultry prIomise, her sable eyes peering from behind velvet lashes, making his blood run thick and hot inside his veins. They're away from everyone, on the far side of the property where there's a dock leading to a small lake and he doesn't try to keep up after she lets go of his hand and unsnaps her heels, leaving them behind in the grass.

"What now?" His hands are on her waist, his chin on her bare shoulder. "Dance with me." Soft and vulnerable, the Charlotte only he knows is there. Her eyes a warm caramel, her beautiful features open and honest and without her heels she's secured perfectly in his hold, the crown of her head tucked right underneath his chin. She's standing on his shoes, her feet bare, as they start to sway.

.

.

.

 **one more slow kiss,**

 **what are we waiting on**

 **[heartbeat, carrie underwood]**

"Kiss me..." There's a begging note underneath the husky murmur, as if he'd deny her request when she should know he couldn't deny her _anything_.

It's slow and languid, her mouth opening easily for his tongue. Their tongues tangle gently, neither in a hurry to break the kiss or escalate it further than this, this warm exploration both of them are doing while hands roam aimlessly over smooth silk and crisp linen. His jacket falls away first and then one strap of her lush maroon Grecian style dress is all the way down to her elbow.

"Charlotte..." Her name whispered, like a prayer, like she's precious and delicate and beautiful and a _woman_ , things she doesn't always feel as she's always battling the heavy weight of _Flair_ and legacy and the steely facade a woman needs to have in their industry. His hand sifts through the elegant waves (the pins that secured her updo were left behind right after the ceremony), spreading them around her bare shoulders, sighing from its softness against his fingers. "Fuck," Heady and wanton, her thighs rubbing together underneath her dress. "You're gorgeous."

"Shut up..." Her cheeks flushed, but he won't let her look away from him. "You are," A fierce declaration. "And I'm gonna show you how much, right here, right now."

There's a quip on her tongue, but it stays there as he slides his lips over hers. His kiss – like always – has her brain fogged over. All she knows is _him_ ; his touch, his lips, his taste. She doesn't want to know anything else, there is nothing else; just him and it's perfect.

 _*soundtrack "call it what you want" - taylor swift and "heartbeat" - carrie underwood_


End file.
